


Playing It By Ear

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: A collection of unconnected one-shots, written during and after watchingDaredevil&Defenders. Will probably grow more parts, and tags may be added later as appropriate :-)





	1. The Flu

**Author's Note:**

> No particular ship. My personal choice of endgame is Matt/Finding Peace ;-) but i may venture in other ships (will be tagged as relevant).  
> Am currently in the _i have all the feelings_ phase which means i need to get some h/c out first before tackling sassy!Matt, sassedbyeveryone!Matt, All the Foggys, 100% Done Claire, etc ;-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Student days: a sick roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's one long-term relationship is with his friend Foggy. He can't see him (duh); does he need more contact than what he gets? Is it confusing for him?

As soon as he walked in their room, Matt could feel it: his roommate was burning up.

“Aw, Foggy.”

“Wut…?”

“ You never got around to getting that flu shot, uh?”

“Nuh.”

Probably because Simone, the chief nurse on campus for the flu campaign, had turned him down when he’d asked her out for a drink. Matt kept his hunch for himself, for now at least. He himself was never sick, and he’d always been religious (hah) about getting his shots in time, so he felt pretty confident he’d be fine. Right? Right.

First things first, though…. Er, fluids, probably? Foggy’s fever radiated to him from where his bed was,  so he was already where he should be. Matt left his cane against the wall and sat on Foggy’s bed. “Want some water?”

“’m f’ne.”

“Nope, definitely not.” He didn’t sound fine. He didn’t even _smell_ fine. 

“Better t’morrow.”

“More like in a week, buddy. Nothing much to do other than drink water and wait it out.” At least that’s what they did at the orphanage and he’d survived, right? Foggy whined a little and the bed frame shivered – he must have moved deeper under the covers.

“You sound like a sad puppy.”

“Dyin’ pup.”

“Aw, nah.” Matt patted what Foggy bit was nearest – probably an ankle under several blankets, trembling a little. He left his hand there. “You cold?”

“Hot, cold, hot, cold.”

“ Yeah.” Matt went to the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and brought it back to Foggy. “Here, drink this.”

“Not thuhstuh.”

“Don’t make me call your mother and tell her you’re not drinking enough water.”

“Jerk.”

“Sure am.” Matt helped him sit up and hold the glass. Foggy’s pulse was fast, too fast; but it was to be expected. He didn’t even complain when Matt ran his fingers along his shoulder and arm to finally wrap them around his shaky hand and hold the glass more securely; he didn’t when fingertips followed the line of his too-warm chest to find the bedcovers and tuck him in.

Foggy didn’t say anything else that evening, and Matt stayed with him as much as he could for the next few days. Make him drink, keep him covered, help him to the bathroom and back, poke him with a spoon until he ate some soup. He brought him ibuprofen for the headache and fever and bowls of steamy water for his sinuses and cough syrup for his throat.

 

I t wasn’t bad, really – apart from Foggy being out of it most of the time and alternating shivering with cold and kicking all the covers off of him (Matt threatened to sit on him if he kept doing that, but Foggy didn't even hear him). Being a mother hen though: that felt actually good. A bit selfish, maybe, to enjoy being the helper;  t o e n joy being needed. 

Usually, people assumed he was a bit of a burden for Foggy. Oh no one ever said anything; or rather not in what they thought was his hearing, but he could hear them.  Foggy never repeated any of this, of course; but Matt knew. He knew.  _ Oh, Foggy, you got stuck with the blind dude! Do you dress him in the morning? Hey, what about mixing up his clothes to play a prank on him? Damn, he  _ _ must _ _ never let you just  _ be _ , right? Always needs you, yeah? Does he ever smash that cane in your legs? Do you have bruises, Foggy? Does he crash into the wrong bed sometimes? Do you comb his hair? _

Those were the nicer ones. But Foggy, Foggy never said anything to him. He told them _nope, he’s my best friend,_ and he never said anything to Matt. He knew Matt didn’t need him, and he was the best friend he could never even have imagined. He never left his stuff lying around for Matt to trip on (not that he would, but still), never changed the order of the bottles in the bathroom (even if they had Braille labels), never changed the place of anything without telling him first. Matt wasn’t sure he’d had a friend before, but he doubted anyone could ask for a better one.

 

What he didn’t tell his priest though, was the  _ other _ thing: the part where he was glad of the opportunity not only to be a good friend too, but also to be able to  be close to Foggy. Touch his skin (soft, also damp with fever sweat), map his face like his father had  let him do (his dad hadn’t had facial hair), feel his weight against him  when he rearranged his pillows . Back when the nuns had wiped his face when he was sick, he’d felt… cared for. He remembered it, and even if with hindsight he knew he’d probably put more into it than the nuns had, he still cherished the memory.  He wanted to pay it forward, to do unto others as had been done unto him, kind of thing.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted  F oggy to remember, though. Matt’s arm around his waist as they stumbled to the shower, his cheek grazing greasy (too long) hair that smelled life Concentrated Foggy,  their cheeks grazing as he leaned against Matt’s body just long enough for Matt to  settle him for microwaved chicken broth time .

He felt ridiculous for liking it, for  _ wanting _ it;  but he still did, and Father Arroyo  ma y not  understand such things. Matt wasn’t really sure he did himself  because he couldn't quite pinpoint what  _ such things _ were, either. Maybe  the blindness made him  need  more…  what, touch ?  contact? But the nuns had touched him too, efficient and quick when they scolded him and bandaged his scraped knees. And he did have girlfriends, and he certainly enjoyed them as they enjoyed him. They came and went, in and out of his life; but Foggy? Foggy remained.  It wasn’t about sex, with Foggy.  T hat was good, right? That he didn’t want sex with him. Nothing unnatural about it, nothing bad, nothing  damning , no sin to confess. He could go on helping his friend,  feeling useful, feeling needed – nothing else here. Nothing else.

 

Years later, Foggy still remembered that week he’s spent bed-ridden and sick as a dog back in college. Well, maybe remembered was a strong word, he’d been really out of it most of the time; but between the haze and fevered hallucinations (he was pretty sure there had been no purple horse at any time in the dorm) there had been moments that were real. A warm, dry hand on his angle, heavy and comforting; breaths that were deeper, longer than needed when he was leaning against Matt as he helped him fumble his way out of a sweat-sodden shirt and into a fresh one.  He remembered his hair being brushed away; a soft, wet cloth than cooled him down and soothed. It had felt good. Nice. Comforting, really – but not  very Matt-like. Not as he knew him, anyway. 

For a while, he’d wondered if it hadn’t been Simone, the nurse who had turned him down, sitting by his bedside; but he’d asked Matt and that idiot had joked and fled to the library, with his computer and without his screen-reader. It hadn’t been very convincing, as a performance. Later, he’d learned Matt could could be a good liar, if he wanted to. But he wasn’t, then.

The memory remained in Foggy’s brain. It lingered at the back, in the shadows of his life, and suddenly came back to hit right there, just under the sternum, whenever he was sick and alone and no one was there to tuck him in and bring him chicken broth that was just right, not too hot but warm enough, just perfect. Just right. Even his mom hadn’t been this careful, and definitely none of his girlfriends. Well, it wasn’t Marci’s style anyway.

He wondered sometimes if he’d ever be able to repay the favor, be there for Matt too if – when, because he was an idiot sometimes – he needed it. Matt, who never seemed to need anyone and never asked for help and whose hands so often opened and closed, opened and closed on nothing whenever he was upset. He probably thought it didn’t show. He probably wasn’t even aware of it.

When the time came and Matt needed that, however, Foggy was too angry to remember or to want to remember.

It came back to him much later. Too late.


	2. Down I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between S2 and Defenders...

It all spiraled out – away. _He_ did. Like water down the drain, yes; Matt felt… liquid. Like he had no shape, like every time he tried to find something, someone to contain him it didn’t work. Daredevil couldn’t, Nelson and Murdock couldn’t, Elektra and Stick and Karen and… nothing. No one.

They’d turned away, or he’d pushed them away, or they’d – died. She’d died. Before he could really understand what it was they had, who she was to him. Danger, a thrill, someone who took him as he was – blind and skilled, soft and hard. Everything but the lawyer part, and then the Catholic part of him with a big pinch of salt. As if to ward off the dev- well. Yeah.

Karen hated hat he’d lied and hid who he was, Foggy thought all their years together had been half-lies. He’d fucked Claire’s life up, Stick was disappointed or mocking most of the time, and Matt himself… He’d gone to the church, he’d prayed, but when Father Lantom had asked him if he felt like coffee, he’d declined. What could he say? Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. Knowingly. I have lied and hurt and been angry, so angry. And I failed. People still died.

The words had all deserted him – him, a lawyer. He _knew_ words. But he didn’t know anymore who Matt Murdock was. A lie? Was he a lie? For all he’d protested, he’d loved running around with Elektra, back in college and… and when she’d come back. It had been fun and exciting, dangerous and heady. Even if he knew it put him that much closer to being an intentional killer, to being what he didn’t _want_ to be. Even if it pushed him away from the life he’d built with Foggy and the firm and Karen, it had always been exhilarating. Freeing. 

He didn’t even know who Matt Murdock was, anymore. Or if he wanted to be him. He’d loved it, before. He’d been… had he been happy? They hadn’t known all of him. They hadn’t known that yes, he could focus enough to fight criminals without seeing them, but that he still preferred holding Foggy’s arm as they walked around, because it was easy and relaxing. That he could smell who his roommate had had sex with (not who he’d admitted to, because Foggy was a gentleman who didn’t want her to get in trouble for hooking up with students, even if she wasn’t _his_ teacher), but not Karen’s actual height, because she was always wearing heels. (He could make an educated guess, true. But he didn’t _know_. What color did she like to wear, what her handwriting looked like, why couldn’t Foggy choose between red and blonde to describe her hair? He didn’t know.)

He didn’t know what face Foggy made when they’d fought and argued – he’d sounded angry, his heartbeat had been a staccato of impotent rage and betrayal; his smell acrid with fear and fury and metallic with Matt’s own blood.

They said eyes were the windows to the soul, but he couldn't see theirs and he preferred to hide his behind glasses. So they couldn't see how unfocused they were or how he could move them in their direction but never quite on the _right_ spot, so they couldn't see he had no soul left to look into.

They all were better off without him. Without Matt or without Daredevil, he didn’t know; maybe both? Detective Mahoney could do his job without interference, Foggy could finally shine as he should in court, Karen could build her life here in New York, Claire could get the peace she deserved, Stick could, well, do whatever he wanted.

Hell’s Kitchen and its denizens didn’t need him, it was Matt who’d needed them. He’d wanted to help, be useful; and what had he done? He’d made it all worse.

It was time to shut the shitshow down, stop holding them back or down or whatever it was he was doing. Wake up, do some lawyering, pray, sleep, and repeat day after day.


	3. With A Little Help From My Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy and Matt meet after the events of S2. Written before i watched _Defenders_ , but it didn't end that far from the mark ;-)  
> Matt is A Mess, Foggy is ♥

Foggy’s new job was, frankly, great. The perks like the corner office and seeing Marci every day and the (whoa) salary were a big part of it, of course; but there were also the cases – the clients he was working with, and the respect he got from his colleagues. Sure, he didn’t feel like he had back at Nelson & Murdock when they helped people who needed a lawyer, couldn’t afford one and ended up a chew toy for the bigger players; but the clients he helped now still needed him, right? And he did take some pie-paid cases too, because now he could afford to without jeopardizing everything else. He could rely on his colleagues, on the office wifi and on being able to make his rent, all while still doing good work.

So that was good. That was  _ good _ , right?

He studied Matt. He didn’t look too good, not so much because of the giant bruise on his cheekbone but because of the bags under his eyes. Because of the sense of exhaustion, not only physical, that radiated from him.

“You look done in, Matt.”

“I’m good.”

“ Uh huh.” No need to push it, was there? “How’s it going for you, that  pro-bono thing ?” Foggy wanted to scream. What had happened to them? When had they become unable to even talk? When had it all become so awkward, so stilted? Hah. He  _ knew  _ when.

“It’s good. Not only pro bono, but mostly, yeah. I’m useful, I think? It’s not much, but I don’t need much, you know?”

“Is that why you wanted to meet at Josie’s? Limited funds? You know I can…”

“I know. It’s just… easier here.”

Easy wasn't the first word that came to mind when you looked around. “What do you mean, easier?”

Matt ignored him, because he was Matt. “And I wanted to thank you for settling the tab. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I wanted to.” Foggy drew shapes in the condensation from his beer. “Matt. Easier? Since when do you do easier?”

“I just meant…” He signed. “I know the place. I know where things are. I know the regulars, the sounds, the smells. The tastes,” he added after taking a sip. “I don’t have to… it’s easier than a new place.”

“ And you’re tired.” Matt’s lips did a weird, quick,  _ bitter  _ smile-like thing that h e ld absolutely no mirth. Foggy felt his heart break a little more, even after all they’d been through, after all they’d  screamed at each other. “I thought… this thing you  d o, I thought you,  ah, perceived things. That you didn’t really need anyone after all.”

“ Foggy… I  _ am  _ blind. Focusing on what’s around me, all the time… I can’t…” To Foggy’s horror, Matt’s voice broke. “I really was grateful, all those times you let me hold your arm when we walked or handed me my cane  or… You made it easier, Foggy.” 

“Matt…” He hadn’t known. Once he’d learned who, what Matt was, he’d thought… but he’d been wrong, hadn’t he. It hadn’t all been a lie.

“And you know? Elektra, she never… we worked well, together. We had fun, and she never… we were…”

“She encouraged you to be your worst, Matt. She hurt you.”

“No, she… she was trying, Foggy, she was trying so hard, she – she didn't have much of a choice, either. And she took me as I was. You always hated that I do what I do. That I am what I am. She never did.”

“I like who you are fine, Matt. Emphasis on who. And I don’t like seeing you hurt and bleeding, I don’t like thinking one day I’ll go ID you in a morgue, I don’t like seeing Matt Murdock disappear under Daredevil. You’re not just a punching machine! You’re my friend, we were Nelson and Murdock, we… Matt, you’re more than a vigilante. It’s not sustainable.”

“What am I, then?”

“ Who, Matt.  _ Who _ . You’re a damn good lawyer when you actually show up on time, you were the one who pushed for  us to be a real firm, the one who wanted to help everyone and never thought about money, the one who…” Foggy looked at Matt’s pinched mouth. Stubborn, as always, and maybe even on the verge of tears. The bastard, he wouldn’t make it easy, of course. “Matt, please. I didn’t always react well to that thing you do, but can’t you… I’m afraid  _ for my friend _ ! I’m afraid you’re throwing everything away, everything that you are apart from your Daredevil  shtick. Even the name is not reassuring at all! You’re worth more than that.”

“ I’m doing good, Foggy.”

“Maybe. Maybe you are, but not to yourself. You can’t go on like that, you’re killing yourself, Matt.” Why did he want to be a martyr so much? 

Foggy wondered if it wasn’t some sort of slow suicide; a social one at first, ruining his firm, his job, his relationships; and then what was left of himself. He couldn’t even blame Elektra, her  influence and her death, could he? Matt had always been reckless and she’d made him embrace that side of himself, but it had always been there,  hadn't it? He’d just buried it for a long, long time. Had he even known it was there?

“I just… I want to do right. What do you want me to do, nothing? Nothing, as I hear – all the sirens, Foggy. So many sirens.”

“I know. I know that’s what you want, too, and that’s – that’s good, noble. That’s why you’re a _lawyer_ , Matt – or have you forgotten?”

Matt kept silent, but his white knuckles didn’t need words to be clear. Maybe Foggy was pushing too hard, but what else could he do?

“C’mon, let’s go for a walk, yeah? It’s too hot in here, now I can afford actually warm clothes.” Matt drained his beer and thumped it down hard on the wood.

Foggy led them out and about, and didn’t comment on the fingers digging into his biceps. They wandered around, Foggy rambling about the people and places they walked by and Matt keeping to one-syllable words and the occasional hum. They ended up sitting on steps, listing into one another a little. Long past were the days they were used to drinking on an empty stomach, at least for Foggy. Who knew, for Matt? Maybe they should find a diner somewhere.

“You hungry?” he said. Matt shrugged. “I guess you don't focus on regular, healthy meals, do you? Let’s go, I know a place two blocks from here.”

But Matt shook his head, dropped his glasses on the concrete, and let out a long, broken sigh. “Yeah. No. I don’t know, Foggy, I don’t know, I don’t – I’m sorry, I’m, I can’t stop, and you’re right, you’re right, but that’s who I am, and I’m so tired, Foggy, I’m so tired and I can’t… I can’t…”

His face was hidden behind his hands, but Foggy could hear his harsh breaths. _Oh, Matt_ , he thought.

And Foggy tugged those hands away from the damp face under them and wrapped one arm around his friend. He couldn't bear to see him feeling so lonely when he didn’t need to be. “You’re not alone,” he said. “I’m here, I’ll always be, all right? Even when you’re an idiot I’m still your friend, okay? That's why I’m worried, because we’re friends, all right?”

When did he last have someone tell him he was doing stupid shit out of love? Someone who would be angry at him, out of love and fear for him?

“You’re right,” Matt said in his shoulder. “You’re right, it’s over. It has to be over. I’m over.” His cane clattered a few steps down

“Don’t be an idiot,” Foggy said. “Just take a break, take some time for yourself, all right? Just…” But Matt would never accept he was only one man, that he couldn’t save everyone. He would try, and die trying; and all Foggy could do was be there and never, ever let him forget this idiot had people who loved him, horns and all. Even if it’d kill him one day.  



	4. A Day Off (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy hates Matt's death wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, the first ficlet i wrote! Pure (past)h/(present)c with bonus angst.  
> Can be set whenever ;-) i wrote this after watching Foggy run over NY rooftops to find a very concussed Matt...

Okay, fine, so he’d more or less come to terms with Matt doing what he was doing, but did that mean he had to  _ like  _ it? Did that mean he could play it cool when he was so beaten up he didn’t come to the office? Hell no. 

It didn’t happen that often, or rather not as often as he’d feared at first. Back then, he’d constantly expected a phone call from a hospital, a morgue; a police officer telling him “ _Mr Nelson, you’re the person on record as next of kin. Mr Nelson, your friend and partner is dead, torn flesh and broken bone and not enough blood left in him to keep it all together. Oh, and you’ve lost your job.”_ Icing on the shitcake.

But every time, every single time, was one time too many. Every time, from catching a tiny grimace when Matt moved too fast to that time Foggy had found him half dead on the floor, bleeding out and unconscious; from a hissed breath Matt forgot to hide to his face covered with bruises… it sucked. Always.

“I’m fed up with you and your death wish, you know.”

“Not,” Matt said. Mumbled, rather.

“Not what, not fed up?” Rinse the cloth, wring it out, dab his face, his shoulders. He was lucky his collarbone wasn’t broken (this time).

“Not a death wish.”

“Yeah, right. You got a martyr complex, buddy. All these Catholic saints went up to your head and messed it up good.”

“What does… what does that make you, then?” Matt paused, his eyes not quite focused at something next to Foggy’s ear, and smiled – and split his lip some more, the damn idiot. “Veronica?”

“Shut up, idiot. Just – shut up.” Foggy went on cleaning him, removing the blood to reveal scars old and new on Matt’s body. His magic healing trance or whatever it was couldn't fix everything, whatever he said. “You think the city needs you, you think it can’t do without you. But that’s hubris, right? Why Lucifer became Satan? Isn’t it one of your cardinal sins? No, don’t answer that. I swear, Matt, don’t you dare say a fucking word, all right? Not a word.”

Rinse, wring, dab; rinse, wring, dab; again and again. Foggy’s breath stuttered when he felt fingers on his face, wiping his cheeks. Must have wrung the cloth out a bit too hard, huh.

Nothing more. Nothing more.


End file.
